


Pulvis et Umbra Sumus

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Finn Calrissian, Gen, More tags to be added, Rey Kenobi, Star Wars - Freeform, Yes I made up her full name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We are but dust and shadows.</i>
</p><hr/><p>"Who are you?"</p><p>Who was she? Orphan, pickpocket, scavenger, Chambrey Kenobi, but who was she? </p><p>With a quiet but self-posessed voice, she responds, “I'm no one.”</p><hr/><p>Her name is Chambrey Kenobi, better known as Rey, a scavenger from Jakku Province, and she is wanted by the crown for the acts of thieving, murder, and consorting with the Enemy, along with something else- her power.</p><p>His name is Finn Calrissian, and he has not seen his family since he was 3, when he was taken from them to be conditioned into an ideal soldier for the Order- which he is now on the run from, after defecting from their ranks and joining the cause of their foe.</p><p>His name is Poe Dameron, and he was one of the most gifted and talented young rebels, General Organa's personal protegee, and a legacy of their cause that had been passed down through the generations.</p><p>His name was Ben Solo, and now he is called Kylo Ren, and he is being torn apart from the inside out by the warring desires of loyalty to his master and loyalty to his family; the pull of the Dark and the draw of the Light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, highly valued readers~
> 
> I am proud (ish?) to bring you all my new work (hahaha what other works do I have, anyways?//nervous sweat// I promise I'll try to update those as well. But I'm most likely ditching The Mad Dreamers.)
> 
> This takes place in an alternate universe (way to go, so many obvious statements. So thought provoking. Much wow. The sky is blue. Ice is cold.), in a medieval/fantasy-esque setting. In this AU, The Empire is the official name of the authoritarian government that controls the land. Its leader is Snoke, who is training seven Knights of Ren to battle to the death in an arena upon his death for successorship. Its military is known as the First Order; the law enforcement is referred to as the Justice. Several planets in the canon Star Wars Universe will be mentioned as "Provinces" of the Empire, which is constantly at war with the Rebels/Resistance. The leader of the Rebels/Resistance is Leia Organa (Huzzah to our queen), fomerly of Alderaan, a nation that the Empire had invaded and felled, her adoptive parents assassinated. More notes later.

Her name was Chambrey Kenobi, and she was wanted by the crown for the acts of thieving, murder, and consorting with the Enemy.

The first was true, the second was a lie, and the veracity of the third was unconfirmed. Since childhood, when her parents had passed away due to a plague and left her as a weak and defenseless child of eight to fend for herself on the streets, she had stolen; it was the only way to survive out there with no beneficiaries. Since childhood, she had bitterly learned how to fight and defend herself from assailants who looked greedily at poor girls and forced their hands onto them, though never before had she killed anyone. Since childhood, she has been frequenting pubs in the city’s underbelly, where the worst of the worst resides and the only respectable people were here for information, and there, she had run into all sorts of company, though she didn't know if the company she kept were part of the Enemy’s entourage.

The closest she'd ever come to being in contact with the Enemy was by the way of an older man around her father's age, a smuggler wedded to a rival kingdom’s princess by the name of Han Solo, and his hairy partner in crime Chewbacca, and their flamboyant companion Lando Calrissian. Leia’s kingdom had been bombed out around thirty years ago, Chambrey later learned, and the Alderaanians who survived the barrage of assault took refuge with sympathetic nations or the Enemy, but the princess Organa didn't stop fighting against the Empire and all that it stood for, even when her own parents, Queen Breha and Prince Consort Bail had been murdered in their own beds.

The first time Chambrey encountered them, she was thirteen and having no luck picking pockets in the marketplace; a recent drought having sucked dry the purses of most. If it continued this way for too long, she realized, there would be no coins to filch and she would have to auction her body and take to bedwarming, a thought that made her wince with the mere thought of having to do it. She then turned to the pubs and bars, hoping that wayward travellers would provide easy pickings for her and she would be able to eat that night.

After several hours that day listlessly roaming the market at Niima from dawn to noon, she had all but given up. Even as her earnings dwindled and grew smaller by the day she had not given up hope, but then came the day when she had gotten nothing, today, when even the wealthy had nothing, the poor stayed home, and the marketplace was all but deserted. She could survive on a few stray pennies, but she could not survive on an empty pocket and empty hand. After a bit of consideration, she decided to take her skills at thievery into a pub. She had never done so before- to her, drinkhouses were sordid places filled to the brim with slatterns and roughmen. She looked to her other choices- starve or go into a man's bed- and shuddered.

As the stench of debauchery and sweat and ale hit her, she stands for a second too long in the doorway, stupified and rather a bit aghast at the debauchery within. Following the spectacle of a retching patron nearly coughed up the contents of their stomach onto Chambrey in their bid for the door, however, she had all too gladly stepped off of the threshold and fully into the pub, sinking deeper and deeper into the chatter and yelling and music. She dared not stray far from the door in case someone decided to make untoward advances at her or her pickpocketing had gone horribly wrong.

For several hours, she paced the area closest to the exit, eyes darting to and fro as she clutched at the front of her ragged cloak and hunched within herself protectively. She hums under her breath slightly while she surveyed the throng within for a victim. It became evident to her that no one worth anything was sitting out here- that the richer scum would be deeper within. Taking in a few deep breaths through her mouth to avoid inhaling in the stench of bodily fluids and liquor, she gathered up her nerve and began weaving her way through the crowd, set upon finding the bar and a target.

With all the gracile fluidity of an eel, Chambrey slips through the pulsing mass of bodies drenched in drink and up to the bar, where undoubtedly the new ones and wealthy ones would go. Ah, she was in luck today, she thought, noting him with her sharp hazel gaze. There sat a man in a leather jacket, and Chambrey’s eyes raised in appreciation as he, with his back turned, whispers something to the hairy man lathered in pelts and the velvet-cloaked one sitting beside him, and they both laugh. A jacket like that would fetch a pretty price, that she knew, as would the furs and the velvet cloak, which meant that those three were obviously wealthier than most of the rag clad twigs in here. After a bit, her opportunity came; Leather Jacket slid his wallet across the wooden platform, motioning the bartender to bring him another drink, before he turns again to Velvet Cloak and Fur Coat.

Nimbly, she steps up to the counter and after a cursory look around, she palms the wallet and pockets it, being careful not to attract attention to herself. With the man’s back being still turned, and he and his companions all being engaged in roaring laughter, Chambrey slips back, pivoting on her heel to go before Leather Jacket notices the absence of his wallet. Just then, a large hand latches around her wrist. “Not so fast, kid.”

She knows, even before she turns around, who it will be. The man stands there, one hand on his hip and one on her arm to tether her into place, ruggedly handsome features twisted into a scowl. Chambrey attempts her free herself from his viselike grip, but to no avail, and finds herself panickedly snapping at him, “What do you want with me?”

His expression softens just a smidge, and it is that which stops her from struggling. He turns to Fur Coat, who was even taller than he was- and he was tall for a man, too- and hissed, “Hold on to her for a little, will you, Chewie?”

She changed hands, the tall barbarian named “Chewie” now grasping her upper arm whilst Velvet Cloak added the imposing backdrop, arms crossed and lips drooped in a pout. Even though she resents it, Chambrey finds herself relaxing slightly, for the grip on her arm was gentle, if firm, for a man whose formidably hulking physique made it look as if he could knock her unconscious with a single finger.

Even so, her eyes remained panicked when the first man had put his hands on her shoulders, flinching away from the contact. “May I have my wallet back?” he asks, not unkindly, though firmly.

Taken aback by the civilized tone, so different from the rough and harsh slaps and words she had earned back in the days when she was less patient and more careless, she gapes for a moment before she reaches into the frayed pocket of her tunic and pulls out the wallet, holding it out to him.

As soon as it lands in his hand, he motions for Chewie to let her go. Immediately, she begins to slink away, of her body's innate instinct to run, to hide, watching them warily for signs of pursuit, though they would probably be able to reach out and grasp her despite the tentative but hasty pace she is going right now. The man and his friend Chewie and Velvet Cloak make a motion as if ordering or cautioning her to stop, but she merely continues stepping away quicker, half-turned to face the two men, who were not exactly in pursuit but were trailing idly after her like she was a wayward child. She had gone so far without being detected by the agents of the Supreme Leader, and she didn't intend to reveal herself to them now- but something about them tells her that she isn't in danger, from them, at least. Chambrey ignores it and keeps fleeing.

It doesn't go well for her, as she trips over the leg of some fallen drink-laden patron, cursing with acute viciousness as she lands on the ground. The man, surprisingly, nods and grins in approval at her vocabulary choice and offers his hand to pull her back up. Warily, Chambrey takes it, hauling herself to her feet before she dusts herself off. “Han Solo.” he says, tossing a coin towards her.

Chambrey let's out an involuntary gasp when she catches it; the coin is solid gold, the relief having been scratched away. It lays heavy in her palm, just barely small enough for her to close her hands over. With eyes wide, she looks up at the stranger who gives her this gift.

“You've already met Chewie. This is Lando.” he says, ignoring the look of wonder she throws him and pointing to Velvet Cloak, who performs a very suave and dramatic bow, cloak billowing. “Who are you?”

She nods at the acknowledgment and nods in thanks, turning to go before the question catches her. Who was she? Orphan, pickpocket, scavenger, Chambrey Kenobi, but _who was she?_

 _My name is Chambrey Kenobi, and I am thirteen years old_ , a voice from within her responds. _I was born in the ninth day of the fifth month of the twenty-eighth year of the reign of our glorious Supreme Leader Snoke. My parents were Gon Kenobi and Jannali Clay. My paternal grandfather was the famed Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi and my paternal grandmother Sabé was the former handmaiden to Queen and later Senator Amidala of Naboo. I come from illustrious backgrounds and my early childhood was easy and full of laughter. My parents died when I was eight of the plague, which left me to fend for myself. I live in the downworld of Niima, capital of Jakku Province, in The Empire. I am wanted by the Supreme Leader’s Justice for my crimes of thievery, but no one bothers with a scavenger and thief who operates so locally and who is so obscure _.__

All this, and then some more, she would like to say, but as her lips part and her jaw relaxes, a low hum building from her throat, she suddenly loses her nerve. She tries to get the words out, but she cannot. Her voice and mouth and lips and throat will not cooperate, and she regards the trio for a long moment, before letting out a sigh she didn't even know she was holding.

With a quiet but self-possessed voice, worn rough by life and hunger, she responds, “I'm no one.” before stepping back swiftly and melting into the shadowy crowd.

This time, they let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback and kudos are much appreciated! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Fire and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to meet our other three protagonists + the whiny emo trash!
> 
> It's still pretty much following the plot of TFA as of right now, but it'll go it's own way pretty soon.

**6 years later, Tuanul, Jakku.**

_Take Tuanul, and turn it all to blood._

The Supreme Leader Snoke’s voice echoed in his head as he strode through the ranks of soldiers, each grasping and restraining a villager in the open square with no care for if their captives sustained injuries or not. Some spat at the ground he had walked on, some stayed with heads hanging in silent defeat or acceptance, and some sobbed loudly with hysterical tears and righteous terror whilst they proclaimed their innocence.

The villagers were all gathered into a mass of hysterical desperation, the soldiers making an impenetrable wall surrounding them, and that was when they brought the old man out.

Wizened and hobbling, they forced him unceremoniously onto his knees in front of the black-clad Knight. Through the Knight’s mask, Ren could just about discern the frightened, though resolute expression on the old man's face.

“He will not submit to admitting the location of the rebels.” his lieutenant, Phasma, reports. She stands to the side in her silver armor, awaiting Ren’s orders.

He nods in her general direction, prodding with his powers into the prostrate man's head and finds a wall there. _Very well then, old man,_ he thinks, before delving further. “You will give me the location of the map.” he says, voice dangerous and insistent with the threats concealed within.

The old man, Lor San Tekka, merely shakes his head, the wall getting stronger, if anything else. The Knight clenched his fist and tried to control his anger; by the stars, he ought to be the most powerful in the Empire in Force, and the old man had pushed him away as if he was nothing. 

“It's in there, and now, you'll give it to me.” He snarls and delves again, deeper, more viciously, and does not hear the old man scream, nor his subordinates voice caution, nor notice the blood pooling in the dust until his tunneled vision suddenly snaps back to a normal one. The old man lies dead in the sand, turned towards the sky, red trickling out of his ears, out of his nostrils, out of the corner of his mouth, and out of his eyes, as if he was crying blood.

“He’s dead.” Captain Phasma reports, drawing back ever so subtly, as if she was afraid that the blood would taint her pristine silver armor.

“I know that.” he snaps, teeth grinding against each other. How had the old man done this, resisted the Knight of Ren until he had met his friend in death?

“Sir?” Phasma asks, hand upon the hilt of her sword.

_Take Tuanul, and turn it all to blood._

He turns on his heel, kicking up a cloud of dust. “Kill them all.” he bites out.

That is all the confirmation the awaiting warriors need. With brutal viciousness, they fall upon the villagers, decapitating them one by one, held still by the officers that fettered them, more often than not having to expend several swings of the blade before they would fall dead. Many died agonizing deaths that day, and the sand was forever stained red with blood, the red dripping steadily long after the cries had stopped. The Knight strides away and doesn’t linger to hear the screams of the villagers.

* * *

“Kill them all.” the Knight had snarled through his mask, before he swept his long, dark cloak around him and retreated somewhat from the square, obviously wanting to set the task to the legionaries of henchmen at his disposal.

It was all the approval the soldiers had needed, and his company had stepped up and forward mechanically to the restrained villagers, drawing their swords aloft and bringing them down with vehement, violent hacks. He stays back, hesitating as he watches with wide eyes as silver swords glint red against the afternoon sun, flashing, and then a spurt of blood like that of a fountain springs forth, out of the stump of a neck, the body falling limply to the dust.

He was shaking, so absolutely terrified, horrified, by the deluge of fury and rage and wanton destruction that when he threw himself into the fray- for that was what this mass execution had become, all screams and shouts and battle cries and thrashing figures of wounded but not quite dead villagers- he purposefully kept his blade clean, free of blood as he swung up and down into the blank air.

When the massacre was over, leaving broken bodies and a sheen of blood over the ground, leaving red-splattered armor and red-coated blades, his armor was the only one dirty from mostly dust and with only one or two splotches of blood where and there, in contrast to that of his comrades, whose plated armor had looked to be fashioned out of red metal. His sword was the only one still free of that slick coating of blood, not a red sword like the others, instead the edge and hilt mottled with red specks.

_This isn't right_

With shaking hands, he turns his back to the other soldiers, pacing away, and removes his helm, panting and gasping as if he had ran a mile. His mind repetitively sang- no, screeched- out, _This isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right._

“Private Calrissian.” Phasma says from behind him, the man being so lost in his reveries that he didn't notice the captain until she was directly behind him. It snaps him out of his warring niche of emotions and he turns, jumping at her proximity to him. “Have you received orders to remove your helmet?” she demands, impassive behind her mask.

“No, Captain.” he stammers, jamming the helmet back into his head, the splatters from his comrades’ sloppy hacking still apparent on the white space.

“Report to conditioning upon our return.” she orders, watching him uncomfortably closely for a moment more before turning away and striding toward the rest of the soldiers barking out some order or another, no love lost for the villagers who had perished at their hands, no remorse for their spill of innocent blood.

He stares unseeing for several more moments at the red-stained square, before choking back a sob, muffled behind his helmet, and turns away. His first mission in the field- he recalled just how glad and proud he was that morning, when he received the news. Now it had spiralled downwards into unspeakable horrors and shame, guilt, and he knew that he would never be able to face his comrades without thinking of the village square that was painted with blood and the screams of the blameless.

It was then that he realizes something, just as they are preparing to blaze the town to the ground. He cannot live like this. He cannot be loyal to the Empire and its Order.

* * *

Poe jams a hand into his mouth to keep from screaming in terror as he beheld what is behind him- that is, a mass of destruction, what is left of Tuanul, Jakku. By his side, Bee, red-gold hair concealed under their hood, lets out a gasp at the field of pure red, as it appears from her vantage point behind a stone that was surrounded with a cluster of sparse shrubbery.

_No, no, no._

It is so far removed from the serene but bustling scene of that morning, when Lor San Tekka had requested over breakfast that the adventurous duo go into Niima’s cantinas to wait for an informant who would give them a piece of the map of Luke Skywalker’s path in exile. They had retrieved it with relative ease and headed back to Tuanul.

Expecting the village to be thriving with the rush of the later afternoon, they instead find a site of a massacre. Bee gives him a warning pat on the arm as his breathing becomes a little more fast paced and a little more erratic.

He turns to them, a smile on his face that somehow bespoke love and tenderness for his young, scrappy partner in crime as much as sadness for the deaths that marred the golden reset sands. Poe presses a paper into her hand and before she could restrain him, Poe rushes out of his hiding place amongst the shrubs, letting out a bloodcurdling battle cry.

He brandished his blade, drawing it from the hilt on his left side and charges headlong into the throng of impersonal and red- white suits of armor. Then, the Knight steps up, and with one gesture, her brother, partner, mentor, is frozen in place, unmoving as he strains against the magic bindings the Knight must have laced on him.

_No, no, no._

She knows of the brutality of these Knights and their bloodlust and their craven, feral ways. She knows they are the apprentices of Snoke, which meant that they stood for everything for whichs she and Poe and all their friends stood against. She knows of their magic, that they could kill a man with onto a mere thought. She doesn't know much, but she knows that nothing short of a miracle would save him.

The Knight strides calmly with a surprisingly ungraceful stamp to his steps though it made him no less worrisome and no less intimidating.

”He has knowledge of where the map is.” That black mask seemed to strike so much dread in her that she could not begin to describe the overwhelming amount of hopelessness and helplessness that overcame her.

The only remedy was the look in Poe’s eyes as he is taken away, now free of the bind, and he had twisted her way imperceptibly. His eyes held regret and infinite sadness: “So it's the end of the line for us, eh, pal?” And then mouthing a single word on his breath, so softly that Poe himself wasn't sure if he had said something.

“Run” he had mouthed at her.

If it were anyone else in such a situation, she would have disobeyed or at lest argued. But this was different. this was Poe. He would never betray her.

She ran like a demon was on her heels- for all she knew, they were, in the form of obedient soldiers of the Empire, of course. If Poe had to sacrifice himself, it would not be in vain. She would ensure that the map would end up in the right hands.

The last thing Poe sees as the shadowed and stark hatch closes both materialize in his mind’s eye. 

The fire of Bee’s hair.

The blood on the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback and kudos are much appreciated! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
